


cycle of violence

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Slow Burn, i feel like i've now earned the ship tag., it's getting gay now., playing with the game's mythology a little
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: AU, canon divergence. After being defeated atop Ashina Castle, Genichiro is brought to the shrine to recover. With nothing but time on his hands, he is forced to reconsider his path--and his connection with a certain shinobi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on two things. 1. I love Genichiro, I love how the game sets him up as a foil to Wolf and I wish we could see what would happen if he was shown the same kind of compassion. 2. I love the trope where there's one villain hanging out with the hero team just kind of being a bastard. Also I think they should kiss.
> 
> I'm writing this as I go through the game, so I can't really say how long it's going to be or what my update schedule will be like. But I already have some ideas for what comes next...
> 
> chat with me about this game @gynoborg on twitter!

The storm moves through the man, through the blade, down at him in one striking arc of frustration. But he is a shinobi. Wolf turns, and with his new arm catches the sword.

It bites deep into the wood of his arm until it hits metal, lightning sparking along the mechanisms. Genichiro does not flinch. He presses down harder, teeth gritted, face burning with rage.

“Enough, Genichiro.” With Kuro safe, the anger has gone out of him. He has fulfilled the code, he took his revenge. The man before him is not the man that cut his arm off.

He can feel the lightning course through him. It does not matter now. Maybe he dies, maybe he doesn’t—at the worst he will just come back. It’s over and they both know it.

That doesn’t stop Genichiro from snarling against him. “It is _not_ enough. For Ashina, I—”

“Will you die here for Ashina?” His voice is barely audible over the rumbling storm. “Drop your sword and fight another day.”

“Do not look down on me, mongrel.” He draws the blade back and slashes, a series of desperate and vicious blows. They are easily avoided. Genichiro was his respected foe, but rage and exhaustion has made him undisciplined.

Wolf steps around him. “I won’t ask again.”

With a roar, Genichiro calls the storm to his blade, but it’s too much. It crackles against his scars, jolts through him, his muscles seizing. The shock immobilizes him for a moment, suspended horribly stiff and upright, and then his head drops. He sways, and falls.

Wolf catches him.

 

 

Maybe it’s something about the sword that Kuro gave him. It beseeches him to mercy. His father would have disliked such compassion, but now that he’s carried Genichiro’s unconscious body back to the little shrine, he’s sure he made the right decision.

In sleep there is little trace of the man who nearly killed him several times over. His face is calm, the surface of a still lake. He does not stir, even when Wolf applies medicine to the places where lightning has ravaged him.

But every so often, nightmares take him. His face knits in pain and grief, his body trembles as an invisible fire works its way through him.

Wolf can only look on. Surely he looked the same when he was first dragged here. So, he watches over Genichiro, and the kind-faced Buddha watches over them both.

 

 

Genichiro wakes on a dusty hard floor with a blanket over him. Fever wracks his body. His mouth is dry, his muscles ache. He strains, but his body won’t listen, can’t keep his eyes open. There’s a man in the room with him and flames, flames—

He dreams of a wolf, stalking him with red eyes.

 

 

The next few days hold a startling lack of violence. Wolf moves within the castle, holding counsel with Kuro and Isshin. They have a plan now, a goal to strive for. His mood is lighter. It feels almost like so many years ago, when Kuro would wish to venture off somewhere under his watchful eye, the quiet pleasure with which he would crouch by the river, studying the creatures there. Only now there is a war drawing near…but his lord is still a scholar. It makes him proud.

That first evening, he takes sake with Lord Isshin in his tower. Isshin talks enough for both of them. He can see why so many would follow the man. The name he gifted makes warmth bloom in his chest.

But soon enough, their talk turns to Genichiro.

“How was he?” Isshin’s jolly manner betrays a genuine question. Though the old man gave his approval, they have not discussed how Wolf has taken Genichiro in. “You two crossed blades, did you not?”

He does not know how to answer that. Or how to talk about Genichiro at all. “…to put it simply, he was strong.” It’s a poor description of the fight, but he is still struggling to unravel all that happened. He has never felt evenly matched by anyone as he had with Genichiro. And there’s something else too.

“What exactly is the lightning of Tomoe?”

Isshin raises his eyebrows. “That? It’s a technique belonging to Genichiro’s mentor. I’ll wager it was quite the sight.”

“His mentor?”

“Tomoe.” He pauses, drinks deep from his sake. “There aren’t many masters of the sword like her. To see her fight, it’s like she’s dancing. When you look into her eyes…you feel as though you’re being drawn into the depths of the ocean.” Isshin watches his face, waiting for a reaction.

It’s not far off from how he felt, fighting Genichiro. Despite everything that was at stake, there were moments when they almost seemed to dance. But his eyes had not resembled the sea so much as smoldering embers.

He cannot say any of this to Isshin. The sake is making his face feel warm.

Mercifully, the old man lets him go. He refills his cup and continues. “I was completely taken by her and it almost killed me. I’ve lived a long life, but that was the closest I’ve come to death.”

Wolf takes another sip. The lesson is clear.

 

 

A scraping sound pulls Genichiro from his sleep. Adrenaline jolts him, his years of martial training reacting to the unfamiliar place.

“Don’t strain yourself.” Comes a low, hoarse voice from nearby.

There is a man hunched over in the middle of the room. He’s surrounded by figures casting strange shadows in the low light.

“Where…” He manages to croak out.

“Near the outskirts of Ashina Castle.” The old man looks over to him. He resembles a gnarled piece of wood. And though he is looking at Genichiro he is carving…something.

No matter. An old man is no threat to him. His whole body hurts, but at least he is lucid. And near home. He can make it, he is sure.

He strains, manages to sit up. Finally, he can see the extent of the damage that’s been done to him.

His right hand is burnt, blackened up his forearm. The skin cracks and peels horribly. What would Tomoe think of him now? Charred wounds spider across his chest, interrupted by one great red mark—the place where the shinobi stabbed him. The rejuvenating waters have kept him alive, but it _hurts._

The old man scoffs. “Stay put. Wait for the shinobi to come back, at least.”

Genichiro bristles. Of course. It’s not enough that he be beaten, now he’s been dragged off for what? To be interrogated? To die again and again here in this forgotten corner of Ashina? “Let him come. I took his arm before, I can do it again.” He’s sitting up now, though it hurts, looking about for his things.

His armor is piled up in a corner. Brought here by the shinobi, maybe? His bow and blade are missing. So his enemy thinks to defang him.

“You think he’ll come to kill you?” A laugh like scraping wood comes from the man. “You’re more a fool than I thought. That boy has been watching over you day and night.”

That’s strange. He hadn’t thought the shinobi cared about anything save his lord. Maybe it is on the orders of the divine heir that he’s been brought here. The boy has a soft heart.

But a soft heart will not save Ashina. Genichiro leans back, and begins to steel himself.

 

 

Wolf makes it not a foot through the entrance when there’s a blur of motion to his left. His prosthetic arm shoots up automatically, flicking out the iron fan he’s been using as a makeshift shield. There’s a hard sound of flesh hitting the metal, an involuntary yelp of pain. He draws his blade as he twirls the fan shut, prepares to lunge if he needs to.

He doesn’t need to. It’s Genichiro, glaring daggers at him and clutching a sore arm. “Lord Genichiro.”

“Shinobi of the Divine Heir. State your business and leave me to mine.”

Even without his armor and arms, Genichiro is an imposing man. He stands at least a head taller than Wolf and is built like a bull. He must have been trained in hand to hand combat—his punches hurt. He is not a man to be trifled with. And right now, he can barely keep himself upright. He sways in place, and for all his anger, he can’t seem to keep his eyes focused on Wolf.

“Sit. I have medicine.” Genichiro eyes him with distrust as he produces the gourd. “From Emma.”

His face is still disdainful. “Bring Emma to treat me, then.”

“She must attend to your grandfather.” Wolf begins unpacking rolls of clean cloth for bandaging. For a moment, Genichiro only watches him warily. Then, as if his strings have been cut, he collapses back onto his makeshift bed.

They sit upright, facing each other. Genichiro extends his damaged arm when prompted, does not flinch when the cold water is poured over it. Wolf anoints him with the efficient manner of someone who has only ever practiced battlefield medicine. It is no miracle. The skin does not knit back together. But the worst of the charring, the truly dead flesh begins to fall away, the new red skin beneath it already looking soothed.

Genichiro neither helps nor hinders him, simply watches. “Why?” he asks as Wolf starts to bandage his arm. “Why are you doing this? Did your lord order you here?”

It’s a fair question, and one he has been asking himself. Wolf only knows that in the moment, he had been so tired of the pointless, endless violence. And he had remembered what the Sculptor told him about Shura.

(Kuro had approved of his decision, and that was all that mattered.)

“…your name is still Genichiro Ashina. Recover quickly, that you might defend your country.” As he fastens the final loop of the bandage, he fixes Genichiro with a pointed stare. “And you will do so _without_ the blood of my lord.”

Genichiro flexes his arm, studying how it moves. It won’t heal the years of damage the lightning has done, but the most recent burns are already soothed. “This changes nothing. Would you still heal me, knowing I aim to use the Dragon’s Heritage?”

“There will be no heritage left to use.” He replies without a hint of satisfaction.

“What?” Shock ripples across Genichiro’s face, immediately followed by anger.

“It is my lord’s wish to sever immortality. Perhaps it was your actions that showed him this path.” Uncalled for, maybe. But he does not know how else to make Genichiro see.

“Do you detest me so greatly?” He reaches for his sword instinctively, then winces. “Do you wish for Ashina to fall?” Despite the anger and grief in his voice, his body cannot keep up. Without Wolf bracing him, he leans forward, breathing heavy.

There’s no point in having this argument now, when Genichiro can barely keep himself upright. “Rest. I will return tomorrow.” Genichiro grits his teeth like he’s preparing to argue, then sits back against the wall. His eyes flutter closed, half-lidded. Wolf stands and turns to leave.

“Will you truly not serve a different master?”

He will not dignify the question with an answer. He merely steps over the threshold and slips away into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genichiro makes some new friends and has a bad time. Wolf tries to be understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I was distracted with...well...playing the game...the next installment should be quicker.
> 
> takes place over act 2 of the game.

Morning brings the sounds of birds chattering in the eaves of the shrine. Wolf returns to find the sculptor already at his work, and Genichiro already awake.

He sits as imperiously as he can manage, arms crossed in front of him and glowering. “Explain to me why you would sever the dragon’s heritage.”

“Good morning, Genichiro.”

The man is still weak from injury and illness, leaning back on the wall to support himself. His skin is clammy with the remnants of fever. But his eyes are lucid and hungry, fixed on Wolf. “You benefit from the Divine Heir’s oath, do you not? Why lose that power?”

“It corrupts.” Even if Kuro never said anything, he would have understood it. Good men tear themselves to pieces over this power. “Look at yourself.” Wolf himself could do without it, and perhaps that’s the reason he has it. Part of him feels certain that even without the Dragon’s Heritage he would have still stood up after being cut down again and again. Owl often taught him this. You can always push further.

“Then that is the burden I must bear.” Genichiro bows to him, suddenly. It’s alarming from someone so imperious. He stares up at Wolf with a desperate look. “Shinobi, please.” The anger is still in his voice, but it’s faded, grief taking its place. “Without this, Ashina is lost. All these people. This land you walk. Please, for her sake.”

Wolf kneels to his level. It makes him oddly uncomfortable to stand taller than Genichiro. He is only a shinobi, and this man is a respected general who stands to inherit their country. And yet…

“Why do you need _this?_ ” The question he’s been turning over since that first night. “Do you have so little faith in yourself? You took my arm. You are capable.”

It’s too many words for him at once, but Genichiro looks stunned. He’s rendered silent for a moment.

Then he laughs, ragged. “You are tenacious, shinobi, but you are not an army. You are not a nation. Do you know the size of Ashina compared to Japan? Compared to the world? Or did your father not teach you that?” The last sentence is spat at him, but he shrugs it off. No, Owl had not bothered with politics. It did not matter. There were no clans or nations, only your master.

Still, he’s beginning to think he should brush up on his history with Isshin. “She took her freedom once before.”

“Yes, with the element of surprise. With distractions on our side. With great casualties—you and I should know.”

“Do you think,” he speaks gentle, quiet. Like coaxing an animal. “That if you have this power there will be no orphans on the battlefield? Can you promise me that, Genichiro Ashina?”

Genichiro is silent. His eyes are steel, his mouth set in a firm line. They’re done here.

 

 

 

On the third day, he can no longer stand being treated like a sick child. His fever has broken sometime in the night, so Genichiro rises with the sun, ignoring the shrieking pain in his body, and resumes his usual exercises. This much, at least, he can do without weapons.

He stands outside for the first time in days. Even the early morning sun seems unreasonably bright. A dusting of fresh snow coats the ground, but he barely feels it. His limbs tremble as he moves.

There’s a man in the courtyard, dressed in grey and going over ledgers of some type. A merchant, maybe? He spares Genichiro only a glance, then looks back at his work.

He must move slowly, more slowly than usual. But he does not stumble. Even without a sword he can follow the motions his mentor drilled into him. He holds the image of the floating passage in his mind as he moves, fluid.

As if struck by a sudden epiphany, the merchant looks up at him again. This time, he stares.

“You’re…”

Genichiro glares, silencing him. The last thing he needs is this getting out. If his people know he is injured, held captive, their morale may fall. “I’m a pilgrim visiting this shrine. Nothing more.”

The man blinks at him for a long moment, then recovers himself. “Of course. But, ah, friend, you’re certainly a man of wealth. You must forgive my interest.”

Is this fool actually asking for a bribe? His hand moves for his sword before he remembers it’s gone. His hands will have to do. “You’ll hold your tongue, _friend—”_

“Let him be.”

The sculptor stands in the entrance of the shrine, upright for once. Genichiro is fed up with this place and these people, enough of the shinobi and all his ilk. He stalks up the creaking steps, glowering.

“Do not give me cause to harm an old man.”

The sculptor scoffs at him. “Tch. I see you haven’t learned any manners.” He opens his mouth to question what the hell he means by that, but the man cuts him off. “Don’t give me that. Last I saw you were barely a pup still clinging to your grandfather’s sleeves.”

Genichiro freezes, torn between irritation and confusion. “How…”

“And now you show up here, half dead and half demon.” The sculptor points his chisel at him accusingly. “Isshin certainly knows how to choose them.”

“If you know my grandfather,” He straightens up to full height, tries to gather himself. He will not be belittled by an old man. “Please, help me return to him. All that I have done was in his defense—”

A harsh and raspy laugh drowns him out. “Isshin would have cut you down himself had that shinobi not handled you.”

He’s stunned. His thoughts whirl—there’s no way—grandfather wouldn’t—who is this man anyway—has he really done something so bad? His arm twitches again and again, seeking a sword that isn’t there.

Perhaps seeing his frenzy, the old man softens, takes his shoulder with a great gnarled hand. “Boy. Come have tea with me, and we’ll talk of your grandfather.”

Still stunned, Genichiro follows him back into the shrine. They sit in the center of the room and now that he actually looks, he sees with horribly vivid clarity what the sculptor has been carving. Thousands of buddhas, their faces contorted with wrath and grief. All focused in on him. The room feels suddenly very warm.

“Genichiro.” The old man’s voice shakes him. He offers a sake cup that looks like it’s seen better days. “Drink. Perhaps it will help your memory.”

The sake is strong, unrefined. It warms the back of his throat, curls like fire in his stomach. More like what his grandfather prefers to drink.

He wracks his brain and comes up with very little. Isshin took many visitors when he was younger, many of them shinobi. But there were a few who shared sake with him. He used to complain, call them fools. There was Owl and his people…and then another two, and they were almost always with Dogen. He can’t recall their faces, but—

“Your arm.”

The man nods, and drinks. “Isshin took it.”

“Why?” That’s not at all what he expected. Grandfather had been this man’s friend, hadn’t he?

“Same reason that shinobi cut you down. Had to be done.” He winces at the burn of the drink, then looks down, back to his tools. Genichiro can see him curl in on himself a little more, protecting his ruined arm. “I could not stop myself, so he stopped me. It’s good to have a companion like that.”

Genichiro chooses to ignore the last part. “If I were really…if that’s true, then why not kill me?” He still doesn’t understand. Compassion is unbecoming of a shinobi. So why has this one stayed his hand? Why does he tend to Genichiro’s wounds and speak without malice?

The sculptor shrugs. “Why didn’t Isshin kill me? That’s the difference between a man and Shura.”

Shura again. Genichiro has never seen one, nor believed in it. His grandfather used to tell him stories, child’s fables. Now he wonders if those stories were about the man in front of him. He doesn’t look like a demon. He just looks tired. “Someone helped that shinobi, once. Gave him care he was unprepared for. And he’s become a very different man since.”

“And he thinks to do the same with me?” He could almost laugh at the utter audacity of it. Genichiro knows what he is doing. He’s been prepared from the very start. Perhaps a demon is just what they need to secure the safety of Ashina. “I do not need _help_. Unless he wishes to serve under me on the battlefield.”

The sculptor tries to pour another cup and finds the bottle empty. He shakes his head and sighs, a rumbling noise like a creaking tree. “You two are of a kind, you know. Emma, too. He could have been in your place just as easily.”

Genichiro turns aside at that. They may have come from the same place, but he is his own man.

 

 

It’s been a harsh few days, but Wolf makes time to return to the shrine. They are making good progress on recreating the incense. Soon his lord’s wish will be granted.

He does not tell Genichiro this. It would not help. Instead he unceremoniously drops a package at his feet.

“Rice. From the Divine Child.”

“You’ve brought me…uncooked rice?” Genichiro blinks at him like he’s grown another arm.

Wolf is confused. What is there to understand? “It’s good for you. Healing.” He opens the bundle of rice, wrapped in a cloth from the temple. The girl is so considerate, he’ll have to return it to her later.

They sit and eat together—or at least, Wolf eats. Genichiro is quiet, but at least he is content to be near him. He takes a few bites, politely, then seems to realize that it’s not normal rice. Surely he can feel the strength returning to his body.

“…the Divine Child, you said. Not the heir. Explain.”

Wolf stops chewing. He had thought perhaps he was aware already, but…

“Genichiro.” He does not mince words. “You dealt with the assassins of Senpou. Did you know what was happening there?”

Silence. Then, “I know they were studying a way to recreate the Dragon’s Heritage. I did not ask for details.”

“Children died. Many.” He cannot express the depth of what he means. The horror that had dawned on him in that place.

Genichiro responds slowly, deliberately choosing his words. “Many children live in Ashina. Many children die in war.”

Wolf curls his nails into his palm. It’s not untrue, of course, he understands that. But he doesn’t understand—“You say that very easily.”

“You think it easy?” Genichiro’s face holds no scorn, but is placid and calm. It’s the same face he had when they first fought. “Sacrifice is never an easy choice.”

He knows. He knows if someone asked him to choose between Kuro and all those nameless lives, he would cast them aside and never regret it. But the least he can do is honor them in life, remember them. Not like this man who tramples over corpses.

Wolf swallows his anger. “You should speak with her. Someday, when it is safe.” _When I can trust you,_ he means. “You may learn something.”

Genichiro is no longer looking at him. Instead he’s looking into the rice like he could divine its secrets, rolling the grains between his fingers.

 

 

 

The Divine Heir comes to visit him. There must be some secret path the shinobi uses. Under his wing, the lord looks like a little bird.

Kuro kneels to him, palms outstretched. In his hands are two rice balls.

“A token of my gratitude, for the gracious treatment when I was your ward.”

Genichiro almost snorts. The boy plays at politics well. But he bows in return. “I am glad you found my home to your satisfaction.”

They’re both staring at him with expectation. The rice balls are still there. What is it with these people and food? Genichiro does not want to eat sweets. He’s barely eaten anything since he drank the sediment. Fine. He takes them, if only to end the uncomfortable moment.

The first bite is pleasantly sweet. Delicate, not cloying. There’s something nostalgic about it—reminds him of the food his grandfather’s retainers used to offer him when he was a child, running in the castle courtyards. The sticky texture is satisfying.

Under the shinobi’s watch, Kuro talks to him about his grandfather’s health, about the state of the castle. He does not say a word about the dragon’s heritage. It’s prudent of him—the boy has always been wiser than his age, and always so serious. In a different time, Genichiro might have been the one to teach him.

He eats a whole rice ball and starts in on the other. It really has been some time since he ate a proper meal. When he tries to think about it, he can’t remember.

The Heir and his Wolf retire outside the shrine to speak in private. Genichiro feels oddly as if he’s taken some sort of test and they’re discussing his performance.

This might prove fruitful. If the Divine Heir comes here unguarded, Genichiro could secure him again. Surely the shinobi cannot always be by his side. Or Genichiro can cut the man down, at least for a time before he is revived, and—

And what?

The Divine Heir will never accept him into his immortal oath. Not ever. He can take Kuro a thousand times over: the Wolf will only come back and come after him. Then one of them will die, and return to life, and they will do this again and again, like actors playing their parts. It will never change. There will never be an end to this cycle.

_What is the point?_

He knows, then, that Ashina is lost. He will never have the power he seeks to defend his home and family.

“Lord Genichiro? Are you well?”

The Divine Heir has reentered the shrine without his noticing, the shinobi close behind.

“Yes,” He composes himself. He must appear unwavering. “It is only…it was surprisingly sweet.”

 

 

 

It becomes a part of his routine over the following days. Wolf goes out to investigate some new lead, then reports back to Kuro. He talks with Emma, drinks with Isshin, and finally when he’s certain all is well, he returns to the shrine. And to Genichiro.

Today he’s training with a hastily carved staff of wood, moving through the flowing forms. The sculptor feigns disinterest but is watching him closely, comments occasionally on his technique.

Genichiro nods when he sees him, but does not pause in his exercises. He looks well now, not just no longer sickly but somehow more fluid in his motions. It is hard to forget that he is a handsome man, hard not to notice the grace of his body. Hard to avoid looking at his muscles and the scar that Wolf gave him. He wears it well.

When he’s done, he sits with Wolf on the steps outside. Lately he complains of boredom, and seems glad for the company. “What news have you brought me now?”

Too much has happened to summarize. So Wolf simply tells him, “I fought an ape.”

Genichiro blinks at him. “You fought an ape.”

“I cut off its head.”

Genichiro smiles for just a moment—actually smiles—and shakes his head. It makes him want to smile too. He respects Genichiro as a warrior, but it is a special thing to see the man at ease.

“Wolf.” It’s the first time Genichiro has called him by his old shinobi name, and it startles him into silence. “Let us stop pretending. I am healed.” He rolls his arm as if to punctuate the statement.

Wolf’s eyes are drawn to the muscle there. “You are.”

“I am still Genichiro Ashina. I am still our lead general.”

He sees now, where this is going.

“You are.”

“Will you prevent me from leaving, Shinobi of the Divine Heir?”

The question hangs between them in the suddenly still air. It feels like the moment between a summer storm, and that’s what he sees in Genichiro’s eyes. Roiling storm clouds. But not a hint of red.

“…wait here. I will bring you your bow and blade.”

Genichiro looks genuinely surprised as he stands to leave. But he had made up his mind from the start—he will not force the man to anything. All he can do is trust, and hope that he will choose a better path this time.

It is not a sure thing. Anxiety twists in his heart as he presses his body to the secret door that will take him back to the castle.

His blood runs cold. It does not move. The door has been sealed.

 

 

The shinobi’s footsteps are louder than usual, hard on the snowy ground. Genichiro turns to face him. “Returned so soon? Have you changed your mind?”

The look on Wolf’s face renders him silent.

“Something has happened at the castle.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genichiro protects his home. Sekiro meets a ghost from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR THINGS THAT HAPPEN AFTER YOU GET THE INCENSE INGREDIENTS! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!
> 
> this one got kind of long, woof.
> 
> the next two chapters will be more...relaxed in terms of content, so if you have any particular characters or scenes you'd like to see, drop a comment!

They approach Ashina from the reservoir, a strange mirror of that night they met. Genichiro has been at least permitted a plain sword from a dead soldier. The first guards they saw had hailed the man, called him lord even as they look at Wolf askance. They had warned of attackers at the castle.

It’s not until they reach the main gate that they see them. Genichiro shouts to a guard at the gate. The man turns to him, relief and pride on his face. And then the tip of a sword emerges from his chest.

Without even thinking, Wolf moves.

The soldier’s body drops grotesquely as the attacker withdraws his sword. The man revealed is dressed in black, a bright red hat guarding his head.

Kusabimaru rings out against the stranger’s sword, cold and hollow. They retaliate fast with low cuts, aiming to slow him down. Wolf jumps back, plants a foot on the soldier’s chest and pushes off. They seem surprised but presses on, slashing at him again as soon as his feet touch the ground. He turns the blade once, twice, again, before trying a quick jab. It’s not fatal, but it draws blood, and that’s enough to get them on the back foot. With a loud snap he extends the axehead from his arm—

“Behind.” He reacts to the voice without thinking, ducks low and darts into a new position. Sure enough, another sword—another two swords—slice through the air where his body was a moment ago.

Genichiro sweeps in to take his place, catching the new assailant in the leg. Wolf takes advantage, impales the attacker, showers them all with blood when he withdraws. Genichiro doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. The other one is coming after him now, rapid stabs at his face that push Genichiro back. He’s fast, but he’s not trained as a shinobi.

Wolf is. Like flowing silk, he flicks his blade across the attacker’s throat. The body falls at Genichiro’s feet.

They’re both panting there for a moment, unsteady. Looking only at each other, they share the same fear. Their opponents are no petty bandits.

They have to do something. It will be easy for him to scale the central tower with his arm, and part of him wants to do just that. Trying to bring another person will only slow him down.

“Shinobi.” Genichiro is resolved. He stares at the bodies with nothing short of disgust. “Bring me my weapons. Please.”

Wolf pauses for a moment, considering. “You will be safe here?”

“Yes.”

He nods, extends his arm to the rooftops, and is gone.

 

 

The castle guard is in tatters, but Genichiro gathers who he can, does his best to stoke up their courage. He cuts down yet another shinobi together with them. Spirits rise. Their general has returned.

He could lead them in from the bottom, reclaim the castle by force. But he does not know their numbers inside. Nor the purpose of their attack, though he can guess. If they commit to going in, they’ll be vulnerable to attack from behind should the castle come under siege.

Plenty of reasonable justifications for the truth: for some reason, he wants to wait for Wolf.

It feels like a year, waiting for him to return. But now that Genichiro knows what to look for he sees…a flash of a scarf, black and white hair poking up over the rooftops.

The shinobi alights beside him, bow and blade too. The bow looks ridiculous on a man of his stature.

“I cannot safely approach the main tower. There are too many.” He looks like he’s tasted something bitter. “Shadows. From the interior ministry.”

They’re really here, then. This is war.

“What are your orders, Genichiro? As I recall, you are an accomplished field general.”

From anyone else, it might sound like mockery. But in his experience, Wolf is always serious.

Genichiro takes his sword, sheathes it. The bow he keeps drawn.

“When we fought, how did you find me?”

The shinobi’s mouth almost turns upward. Almost. “I followed the nightjar. They’re gone, now, but I remember the path.”

Genichiro nods and nocks an arrow. “Show me. I’ll cover you.”

 

 

Wolf makes his way across the rooftops, Genichiro climbing behind him. Especially without his armor on he moves well. At least the man can leap, Wolf has seen him in action.

He’s still no match for a grappling hook. They keep pace until the central roof, where Wolf halts him with a hand before jumping over.

A flash of purple on the far side of the roof. Wolf ducks low to close in, but it’s no use. The lone shadows are as much shinobi as he is, and this one’s spotted him. They leap across the roof in a blur of bright purple, sword extended to catch him. He steps out of the way, just back enough to avoid the kick that comes at him next. The swordsman’s posture is so casually confidant, relaxed, but he’s killed the ministry’s shadows before and he can do it again.

They jump high, and Wolf readies himself for the kick he knows is about to come down.

Instead there’s the hiss and then the dull thump of an arrow finding its mark in flesh.

The shinobi’s body comes tumbling down almost directly on top of him. Wolf looks over his shoulder to find Genichiro on a rooftop below him, already pulling another arrow.

Well. If that’s how it’s going to be.

He can move faster now, knowing he has backup to rely on. It’s been a long time—a decade, maybe—since he hunted with a partner. It’s not his preference.

But Genichiro keeps up. Where Wolf goes, he’s two steps behind. When Wolf pauses, his arrows fill the space.

The rooftops are swarming. He’s bold, taking on three or four of them at once. If he dies, so be it. But he doesn’t. Genichiro’s aim is true. He’s tactical, aiming not for eyes but for arms. His arrow pins a hand down and Wolf’s sword severs it. Men bleed and die on the stones below. But they, hunters in the sky, are untouched.

He pulls Genichiro up onto the scaffolding the ministry invaders have put up. “Where now?” If the man is winded, he doesn’t show it.

Wolf considers. He closes his eyes and listens to the wind, feels the weight of people moving on the rooftops. He can feel the calling in his blood—the Divine Heir stands at the top of the lookout tower. But there’s something else only a shinobi would notice. He cannot sense another person there, but rather a conspicuous lack of that sense. Someone obscuring their tracks. Someone well trained, perhaps even better than him.

He opens his eyes to see the other man staring at him expectantly. “Where we fought.” Genichiro seems thankfully untroubled by the reference. “There’s a presence there.”

Genichiro follows him like a shadow up the scaffolding. In a different life, he might have made a good shinobi.

But once they reach the top, all thoughts of the other man fall away from Wolf’s mind. There is only confusion and under it, a growing, all-consuming dread. For the figure there, the invisible presence looming over the Divine Heir, is no stranger to him.

Atop the highest tower of Ashina castle stands the great shinobi Owl.

 

 

The man before them is not unfamiliar. Genichiro saw him employed in Isshin’s service many times. Saw him drinking in their home, too, a big good-natured smile on his bearded face.

That was years ago. And he suspects Owl did not come to serve the Ashina clan this time.

Wolf is trembling in front of him, his arm outstretched to prevent Genichiro from moving any further. “You should leave.” His voice is very quiet.

“What?”

“Let me speak with my father and find the truth of this. You should leave.” He repeats. “Find the Divine Heir and Lord Isshin. See that they are safe.”

He doesn’t understand. Is the Wolf too cowardly to see what has happened? Was he conspiring with his father all along? When Genichiro does not move, Wolf finally turns to him. “Please. I am entrusting this task to you.”

The shinobi would surely not entrust the Divine Heir to him unless the situation absolutely demanded it. “We will discuss this later.” He turns and leaves, not interested in Wolf’s response.

Genichiro makes it to the first tower of the courtyard before something stops him. It’s like a presence, weighing on his mind. He felt the same way the first time the shinobi approached him in the silvergrass field. The overwhelming sense that something is about to go horribly wrong.

He turns back to the lookout tower in time to see Owl on his knees, his arm stretched up. Wolf is above him, sword raised. Unable to move. Hesitating.

Black smoke fills the air, obscuring them both. Genichiro curses and runs to them before he can think to do otherwise. His bow is drawn before he hits the tower floor, firing wildly at the massive, hulking shape in the soot cloud.

When it clears, Owl’s gaze is fixed on him.

“I see my ungrateful pup of a son has extended his _compassion_ to you as well.” The old shinobi spits that word like it’s made of poison. “Pathetic.”

That’s all the warning he gets before Owl lunges at him. _Too fast, how is he so fast?_

He manages to block one strike, but the next cuts deep into his stomach. “See, boy!” Owl roars, but Wolf does not falter. He keeps up his motion, slashes his father across the back. Good. He is steadfast, more than Genichiro has ever been. Under such pressure, Owl drops the body he thinks of as merely lifeless.

The rejuvenating sediment takes the life flowing from his belly, brings it back in. Ashina’s ancient rage fills him, every forgotten spirit of rock and tree, every nameless soldier who died for their land urging him on to fight and kill. He spits his own blood across the ground. That, at least, takes Owl by surprise.

Focus. He must bend the rage to his will rather than being lost in it. He can’t afford to do otherwise, not with this kind of opponent. Genichiro draws his bow back and breathes, steady, patient. He can almost hear Tomoe’s voice guiding him. Controlling this power is not unlike harnessing the lightning.

The Wolf and Owl dart around each other, circling. Moving, moving, he can’t get the shot off. The old shinobi moves strange, purposefully deceptive. His greatest swings come seemingly from nowhere, his clear tells end in the smallest of motions. Genichiro can’t read the pattern of it.

He looses his arrow, catches nothing but Owl’s braid. Again, he tries, but the shinobi jumps back far quicker than his size should allow. Genichiro catches a shuriken in the shoulder for his trouble, almost painful enough to make him drop his bow. Still, he circles, and the storm circles behind him. He’s endured worse.

They move the way only shinobi can, but Wolf still catches his eye, sees what he’s trying to do. He does not nod or motion—Owl would catch any signal between them. That meeting of their gazes will have to be enough.

Wolf allows himself to be put on the defensive, blocking his father’s heavy attacks rather than darting around. The sword is at least as tall as him, probably as heavy too. Even from a distance, Genichiro can see his arms trembling with the effort.

He can’t keep it up for long. A final strike knocks him off balance, sends him to one knee. His father follows, so focused on dealing the finishing blow that he does not notice the gathering storm clouds around them.

Owl stomps down, knocking Wolf to his back and pinning him in place. With his sword in both hands he drives down, impaling his son through the chest. It’s a motion heavy with commitment, a strike to ensure death. But more importantly, it keeps him still.

Wolf dies there, bleeding out onto the floor of the tower.

Genichiro shoots.

The lightning travels through his arms, burning off the newly healed skin. It flies with his arrow, shrieking horribly, and embeds itself deep in Owl’s shoulder.

A smaller man might have died outright. But the electricity coursing through Owl is still enough to seize his muscles, paralyzing him if only for a moment.

A moment is all it takes. Petals fills the air as Wolf surges back to life. In one clean motion he carves through Owl, stomach to chest.

Genichiro sees his mouth move, but cannot hear Wolf’s last words to his father. Nor the response. He looks away.

His blood is racing, his thoughts spinning. Is this what Wolf meant when he said the Dragon’s Heritage corrupts? To think that even his own father would turn against him…Genichiro shivers at the thought of fighting like that with Isshin.

But he would be stronger. He would use the power only for Ashina’s sake. Perhaps it wasn’t the Dragon’s Heritage after all. Shinobi are known to be an honorless sort. Perhaps the interior ministry paid him off.

No. He is being uncharitable. If shinobi are truly without honor, how, then, is he to explain the man in front of him?

Wolf stands over the great body of his father, silent and still. It’s only when Genichiro approaches him that he sees he is shivering. His eyes are wide but unseeing, his face knitted with grief.

He has never seen the shinobi this shaken before. Only the night they first fought, and he had been rendered unconscious quickly then. This man, trembling with a thousand yard stare, is unfamiliar to him.

Genichiro has always led by strength. He’s a good commander, certainly, but his men look to him more for confidence than comfort. It’s Isshin who is always good at winning hearts.

_Grandfather, what do I do?_

Before he can overthink it, he takes Wolf’s prosthetic hand and holds it firm.

Wolf squeezes back, hard, like a wounded soldier trying not to cry out from pain.

He does not look back at Genichiro. He does not say anything. His gaze remains resolutely focused on the sun setting on the horizon. The storm clouds and smoke have cleared away now, leaving a sky the color of delicate autumn leaves. Alone on the tower, it feels as though they are the only two men left alive in the world.

Finally, Wolf lets go of his hand. When he speaks, his voice has the firm, flat affect that comes with training. “Go and find your grandfather. I must speak with the Divine Heir alone.”

Their momentary peace is broken, the world turns again. This time, Genichiro does as he is told.

 

 

His chest aches.

He staggers to the temple alone. He is no shinobi now that he has broken the code. He cannot even call himself a Wolf, not the name his father gave him. He is nothing, nothing—

Sorrow has its teeth in his heart. What has he done? What else could he do?

The Buddha smiles down on him, reminding him. That night the estate had burnt, where had he been? Had it all been part of Owl’s plan? And the worse thought that follows: had he only been given to the Heir because of this? Had he been expected, all along, to betray his master?

A broad hand alights on his shoulder, startling him. He had forgotten that the sculptor, too, was a shinobi.

“It seems to me,” the sculptor rasps, “a different wolf stands before me. One who has chosen for himself how to use his fangs.”

“I had help.” His voice sounds unfamiliar to his ears, rough and shaking. “But I—” He chokes off the thought. He expects to hear Owl’s voice in his mind, reprimanding him for his lack of control. But there’s nothing there, it’s only his own voice after all.

The sculptor claps him on the shoulder, like he does when they tinker with the prosthetic. The weight is a comfort. “There is no shame in wishing not to kill. Hold fast to that feeling. It will keep you from Shura’s grasp.”

There is no father’s path to follow. Having broken the iron code, he is no longer even beholden to his master as a shinobi, though he wishes to stay by the Divine Heir’s side. The thing that binds them is not an oath, but something he cannot name. For perhaps the first time, he sees his path stretch before him like an open road. It strikes him as a terribly lonely place.

 

 

Genichiro finds the shinobi and sculptor speaking in low voices. “Shinobi!” he calls out for courtesy’s sake—no doubt the man spotted him coming already. He steels his pride for what is about to come.

He has not lost hope in his quest. Immortality will be his, and with that power he will save his country. He, Genichiro Ashina, knows this as sure as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. He has to believe it. He has to.

But today, his home is still standing thanks to this man.

He bows low on the snowy ground, prostrate before the shinobi, who makes no attempt to hide his shock. Good. He should understand that Genichiro Ashina does not give his gratitude lightly.

“I offer you my sincerest thanks.”

The shinobi dares to shake his head. He bows in return, deeply. “Thank _you_. For helping me…do what was necessary.”

Genichiro rises to his feet and tower over the man. He will intimidate this stubborn creature into accepting his gratitude if he has to.

“No, shinobi. Thank _you_ for helping me defend my home. It was not required of you, but it was nobly done.”

The shinobi looks like he’s going to respond, then pauses. They must look like fools, falling over to thank each other.

“That is all I wished to say.” Trying not to show his embarrassment, he turns to the sculptor who watches them with a monkey’s wry look. “Isshin sends his regards to you. And his favorite sake.”

The old man waves him off. “You two should have it. Meant for sharing, after all.” With that, he turns back to his endless task. Not so surprising after all that he and Isshin were old friends.

Wolf looks as uneasy as Genichiro feels. Regardless of what happened today, they have been enemies and will be again. To drink together as friends, well…

It’s exactly what his grandfather would do.

Genichiro pours first, despite his status. He was taught to show his gratitude through respect, whether the shinobi appreciates it or not.

Wolf takes the cup in his wooden hand, drinks it in one motion. Silently, he pours for Genichiro in return. Neither of them speaks.

“Were you injured, today?” Genichiro almost jumps at the soft voice, they’ve been so uncomfortably quiet.

“Only opened old wounds.” Some of the burns that had only just begun to heal are now raw and flaking again. “And you?”

The shinobi shakes his head. “Despite my father’s best efforts.” There it is. Perhaps the shinobi does wish to talk, in his own way.

“He seems…” Genichiro chooses his words carefully, not wishing to offend. “Like the sort of man that would be difficult to have as a parent.”

The furrow in the other man’s brow only deepens. “I do not believe I ever truly knew my father. He demanded much of me as a shinobi, but…” He sighs and trails off, searching for the words or perhaps unable to give voice to them. After a long moment he speaks again, staring down at his hands. “My memories are of climbing trees. Meals cooked together. Ball games.”

“Yet you showed compassion to me and not to him.”

The shinobi stares for a moment. “ _You_ did not know my father.”

He waits for an elaboration on that comment. It does not come. When he sees that Genichiro will not be deterred from asking, he shakes his head. “Did you harm the Divine Heir?”

That takes him by surprise. Does this man really think he is such a brute? “No. Do you accuse me of such a thing?”

“My father would have.”

He bites out that statement not with sorrow or anger, but a simple and flat tone as if it is a fact he has long since accepted. A shiver runs though Genichiro suddenly. There is nothing he can say in response to this.

They drink in silence again. Then the shinobi asks with the same emotionless voice, but much softer: “Would you, ever? If the worst came to pass?” He does not need to explain what he is referring to.

“I…” _would never_ , he starts to say, but something compels Genichiro to answer honestly. “I do not know.” He tries to imagine himself, desperate to that degree. If he knew with absolute certainty there was no other way, then.

Wolf does not raise his sword or berate him, merely shakes his head. “You are at least unsure.”

It’s not a comment meant to trouble him, but it does all the same. Perhaps that’s why he lost. Perhaps he should be more ruthless, less unsure. Perhaps he could save his country, if he were the sort of man who would torture a child.

“Grandfather would say that my hesitation will lead to defeat.”

Wolf gives him a long, searching look. “Lord Isshin would say to drink more. Melancholy does not suit you.” With a delicate hand, the shinobi refills his cup. Strange, to see that dreaded and familiar hand touching his grandfather’s ceramics. The incongruity does not bother him as much as he should.

Genichiro lifts the cup to his lips. It’s what his grandfather would do.

 

 

They end up drinking late into the night, until long after the moon has risen overhead and even the old sculptor has gone to sleep. Genichiro turns out to be a talkative drunk, telling stories of his childhood under Lord Isshin. He listens, too, though the shinobi uses fewer words.

At first they traded stories back and forth. But as the night goes on and a chill settles in the air, he grows more and more aware of the gulf between them. In the morning, he will go to the Divine Heir to finish their preparations. Immortality will be severed once and for all. He doubts he will hear Genichiro speak in such a friendly tone again. The next time they meet it may be with weapons. So he grows quiet, and listens—not even to the words, but the low and pleasant sound of the other man’s voice. Like a rumbling storm.

“Wolf?”

“Do not call me that.” He whirls, more sharpness in his voice than he has used in a long time. Genichiro seems genuinely taken aback. “Not now.”

“What should I call you, then? Certainly you’re tired of shinobi _.”_

He has to consider it. He has never had another name save the one from his birth, long forgotten. “Your grandfather called me Sekiro. That will do for now.”

“He named me as well, you know. He likes irony.” Genichiro smiles slightly, but it does not quite reach his eyes. Clearly, the name has meant many things to him.

It strikes him, then, that if they had met in peacetime things might have been different. Genichiro might understand the feelings he cannot give voice to. Might understand what oath and duty means, what obligations have been placed on him. They are forged from the same painful beginning.

Genichiro looks at him as though he might be thinking the same thing.

“Perhaps your father did not ever truly know you, if he was surprised by your choice.”

Sekiro feels suddenly dizzy. He can hear Owl’s voice, something long forgotten. _I did not know what you would become…_

“Sekiro? Are you well?” Genichiro is peering at him with something resembling concern. He straightens himself.

“I merely drank too quickly. And it has been a…challenging day.” More like a challenging month. Or perhaps the last few years. But then, he could guess it is the same for the other man.

“I have met no man as tenacious as you. You will recover.”

“Strange, to hear words of praise from a man who wishes to be my enemy.”

Genichiro does not take offense, only laughs. “You’re a fool, still. But I admire your skill. It’s been a long time since anyone could make me yield.”

“And have you been looking for that?” The words slip out of him suddenly, easily. “Someone to make you yield?”

Hearing how it sounds aloud, Sekiro nearly claps a hand over his own mouth—he’s far too drunk, it’s unbecoming of him. Genichiro looks at him as if he didn’t quite hear, and Sekiro can only hope that he didn’t.

He stands, uneasy with himself. “I should return to my Lord. You may remain here, if you choose. The shrine will always be open to you.” Forcing himself not to look back, he turns away toward the secret passage.

He can feel the other man stand behind him. “Wait, Sekiro.” A hand grabs his wrist, gentle but firm, and does not let go. “Take me with you.”

 

 

Genichiro will not slump against the smaller man’s shoulder. It is undignified, and he is the inheritor of Ashina.

His footsteps are unsteady as he follows Sekiro through the dark passage. The method by which the shinobi can see in the dark is unknown to him, but even drunk and bone tired he guides them with ease.

They burst into the castle with more noise than a shinobi should ever bring. The rest of the evening is a blur—there’s a lot of tripping, a lot of apologizing to Emma. The castle is warm inside, lit with the beautiful glow of evening lanterns. Genichiro feels like a child again, finally come home from running around where he wasn’t supposed to. He wants to sleep in his own room.

But the shinobi drags him to Isshin, maybe unsure of where else to put him. He lays him out on the futon there and Genichiro is simply too tired now to protest. His body refuses to move, no matter how he tries. He can see Sekiro sitting down now, Grandfather saying something that makes him blush. Poor man. _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. _Tomorrow I will sway him to my cause._

The bedding is soft around him and the castle is warm, a much gentler place to rest than he’s had in weeks. He can hear the night birds calling. Everyone he cares for is here and safe, just for the moment. Genichiro closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: with help from Genichiro, Sekiro prepares to enter the divine realm...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With unexpected help, Sekiro prepares to depart for the Divine Realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i'm being fully honest this whole bit is inspired by how funny it is that the game just gives you an abrupt tooltip about lightning reversal with basically no explanation at all

Genichiro wakes with what feels like a spear through his skull.

Groaning, he manages to sit up. It takes him what feels like hours of blinking uselessly to understand where he is—Isshin’s room, in the castle. His grandfather is nowhere to be found.

He exhales, ignoring the throbbing pain, and tries to stand.

By the time he’s managed to dress himself and make his way to the central tower, it’s the early afternoon. The headache has dulled to a manageable hum, but it still leaves him wondering what the hell he and the shinobi were thinking last night. It’s enough to make him think about begging Emma for medicine.

There’s no shinobi in the main room, no Emma. Only the Divine Heir, sitting and reading a book that probably used to belong to him.

“Lord Kuro.”

He starts and snaps the book shut, clambers to his feet. “Lord Genichiro!” He bows deeply. “My apologies, I did not hear you come in.”

They stand there for an uncomfortable moment, staring at each other. The young Heir has certainly made himself at home. Clearly they were not ever expecting the lord of the castle to return. Kuro, ever gracious, seems unsure what to do, waiting for the moment when Genichiro begs him for his power once more. But he knows better than to try that again.

Hesitantly, Kuro gestures to the open window. “My shinobi has gone to make his final preparations before departing for the Divine Realm.”

 _I wasn’t looking for him,_ he almost protests, then hears the second part of the sentence. “What he told me is true, then. You will sever immortality.”

“Yes.” The little lord stares up at him directly, his eyes clear, daring him to challenge the decision.

He knows it’s pointless, but Genichiro cannot help but accept that challenge. “You would doom a whole nation,” he spits bitterly, “over naïve superstition.”

“What superstition?” Kuro shakes his head, gazes ardently up at him. “You are a good man, Genichiro. A capable man. Yet you would destroy yourself in search of this power. I cannot allow that to happen—not to you or anyone in Ashina.” He’s so earnest it almost hurts. There is no reason for this child to have any sympathy for Genichiro, yet he persists.

He and the shinobi, why have they let him live? “Sacrifices must always be made in war. At least with the dragon’s heritage we will have a chance of victory.” It’s the same argument he feels like he’s had a thousand times now, but he can’t give up, even if he begins to doubt his own words. This boy should at least understand the cost of the choice he means to make.

There’s a soft sound of the book falling to the floor. Kuro’s little hands are clenched in his sleeves. “Do you know what happened to the heroes of our last war? Who drank the rejuvenating waters and fought like demons for their country?”

Genichiro stops, because he does know. His eyes flick to the window, where he knows the moat waits beneath them. “They went mad and had to be put down. But I—”

“People could not stand to look at them during peacetime. They were thrown away.” Kuro’s voice is raised now, almost tearful. “I will not live in a world that uses men up and casts them aside.”

“It was their choice.”

Whatever he means to say next is stopped by a blade held to his throat.

“Genichiro.” He hadn’t even heard the shinobi come in, yet here he is, steel in his eyes and his hands.

“Shinobi.” That familiar blade is cold and firm under his chin. He feels no fear, only a sudden self-consciousness at the thought that he hasn’t shaved in a week.

The Divine Heir runs to them immediately, tugs at his shinobi’s sleeve. “Stop this, please. We were only talking.”

They glare at each other for a final moment before Sekiro relaxes and sheathes his sword. His entire affect changes, the violence suddenly gone from his face. “Is that so? My apologies.”

Genichiro looks at him. This is the same man who carried him home the night before. “I would expect nothing less from the shinobi of the Divine Heir.” He’s still standing very close.

Kuro glances nervously at him, though whether he’s worried that Genichiro is offended or that he will retaliate it’s hard to say.

“My affairs are in order, my lord.” The shinobi kneels to Kuro’s stature. “Whenever you are ready.”

The Divine Heir takes up his book again and walks to the window, gazes at the position of the sun in the sky. “Tonight, then.” Genichiro does not try to hide his displeasure. The forces of the interior ministry are practically upon them, and they want to make this choice _tonight._ “We’ll have a fine meal. I don’t want to send you away on an empty stomach.”

Something flashes across the shinobi’s eyes, almost too quick for him to catch. Worry, maybe, or fear. An unusual look on him. More unusual is how contagious it is, how Genichiro feels a flicker of worry for the shinobi in his own heart. And strangest of all is how he wants to soothe it.

 

 

Tonight they will prepare the incense. He has a whole day, then, to pace about the castle restlessly and worry about the worst that could happen.

It’s Genichiro who saves him, grabs him by the hand as soon as Kuro goes back to his reading. He stiffens, ready for a fight.

But Genichiro’s face is solemn, not angry. “Give me the rest of your day,” he implores. “If you would go to the Divine Realm, there is a technique you should know.”

It’s not what he was expecting. Yet he finds himself agreeing to go along. When it comes to matters of Genichiro, following his impulse has not steered him wrong yet.

They end up hiking to where he killed the ape. It’s a good place for a fight, flat and open and isolated, where no one will stumble upon him. Genichiro looks at the clear water with approval. All that springs from the fountainhead flows to this valley, he can certainly sense it.

Genichiro steps back, appraises him. “What experience do you have with lightning?”

“Only yours.” During their battle he had been so intensely concentrated on surviving he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else.

“The warriors of the Fountainhead Palace will know how to call upon the gods for lightning.” Sekiro wonders how exactly he knows that. It’s a question for a time when they’re not holding swords. “But a well-trained blade can deflect it.”

A challenge, certainly. But not impossible. “Show me.”

Genichiro strips down as suddenly as he had during their fight on the tower. Sekiro stands there, uncertainly watching until Genichiro shoots him a questioning look. “You’ll want to do the same. At least remove anything metal but your sword.”

That’s easier than undressing. Most of his armor is cloth, used to twist around blades and catch them. As he undoes the few metal guards he wears and puts them aside, he sees Genichiro preparing.

Dark clouds spiral above him as he raises his sword. Already he shows the signs of exertion, but it makes him no less striking. Half undressed, wreathed by the storm—he looks not like a man but a statue of Raijin, proud and fierce.

“Catch it with your sword, like you would turn another blade.” His voice is changed, as if he is reciting something learned long ago. It’s almost funny. Genichiro has never particularly had the disposition of a teacher, and it is clearly not comfortable for him to affect it. “It is difficult to explain, but you will feel when it happens.”

They stand apart, reflections on the still water, and draw their blades in parallel.

“Jump as soon as you see me move. If you’re caught on the ground, it will be unpleasant.”

“The lord of Ashina, teaching me?” It’s a genuine question as well as a taunt. “Why give me any advantage?”

Genichiro glares at him, arrow-sharp. “Do not misunderstand. I simply do not want anyone else to deprive me of the opportunity to kill you.”

For some reason, that hits Sekiro in the gut. He feels suddenly, painfully aware of what he has known the whole time—that Genichiro is a _man_ , warm and near to him and unfortunately not wearing a shirt. The scar that Sekiro gave him stands out against the rest of his body, marking their fates as inextricably connected. It will never fade.

“Be ready!” Genichiro shouts as Sekiro is still processing this revelation.

He is not ready.

The lightning hits him before he even sees it, unbalanced as he is. The pain rips through him quickly, followed by a swift and sudden death.

On his back in the cool water, he blinks and coughs. “Again, shinobi!” Genichiro stands back from him, his sword held aloft to the heavens.

The world spins, then rights itself. The new understanding settles. Sekiro stands, shakes the static from his limbs, and raises his sword. “Again.”

 

 

 _You fear failure, Genichiro_. Tomoe had said, when she first taught him to petition the gods for lightning. They had stood on the roof for days simply passing the electricity back and forth before she would even consider allowing him to try it himself. Tomoe was cautious with her attacks so as not to kill him, but it had hurt like hell. _You fear the lightning and the pain it will bring if you fail. So in fear of failing, you hesitate. You flinch. You rob yourself of the chance to even try._

Tomoe had rarely been gentle. But she was a good teacher.

Now, passing the technique on to another, Genichiro is almost nostalgic. The pain, the exertion in his limbs, the freedom of movement through the air is all familiar to him. Though now he is grown enough to understand those were not simpler times, they feel that way in his memory.

Then she had died. And since that time he has rarely trained with a partner.

_The pain will come, Genichiro. It is inevitable. Even if you succeed, you are being struck by lightning. It is painful._

The shinobi is a good partner, though. It’s hard to shake the memory of their fight atop the tower. Where else could he find a challenge like that? His men, capable as they are, would never strike a killing blow against him.

Even like this, just practicing, the shinobi does not play. Everything he does is desperate, decisive. He does not flinch. He does not fear.

Genichiro envies him.

_Pain is inevitable. So accept it._

He takes to the lightning quickly. Soon they’re not practicing one motion but dancing together, leaving the ground behind entirely, both of them lit up by the storm’s grace and power. Sometimes they die, and leap up again a moment later.

After some hours, they pause for a rest. The shinobi directs them up through the valley, to the steaming hot pools where he claims monkeys sometimes gather. No monkeys today, but a few capybaras sniff at them from the other side of the spring.

Genichiro shucks off the little clothing he’s still wearing and walks in to his waist. His bare arms and chest are still in too much pain, splitting and raw from the lightning. Even the steam hurts, though it will be good for his aching muscles.

Sekiro turns around as he disrobes. Strange, seeing modesty from a shinobi.

He does his best not to look as the shinobi joins him in the water, for the sake of preserving this man’s modesty. But it’s hard not to look at him when they’re so close.

The shinobi is a handsome man, in a wolfish sort of way. And if any harm has come to him, he doesn’t show it. There’s not a mark on him aside from the tissue where his arm was cut. The Divine Heir has taken them all away. Not like Genichiro’s still wrecked body. The rejuvenating waters will keep him alive, but no more than that.

“Thank you. You are enduring much for my sake.” The shinobi has taken notice as well. He, at least, looks at Genichiro not with horror or pity, but with respect.

He shrugs it off. “It is not a technique meant for the human body. I am used to it.”

“Heretical arts, I’ve heard.”

“People will always deem heretical what they do not understand.” It comes out with more vehemence than he meant. He knows the stories told about his mentor even now.

Sekiro nods at that, just slightly. “Lady Tomoe was…not of Ashina, yes?”

“She came from the divine realm as a retainer to the divine heir at the time. In that respect, she was much like you.” The idea doesn’t occur to him until he says it out loud. Their personalities are little alike, save for a strong sense of loyalty.

“I would have liked to meet her.”

“She would have liked to fight you.”

The shinobi snorts at that, looks down at the steam and the water. His eyes are dark, his lashes surprisingly long. He looks tired. Genichiro has grown used to thinking of him as an unstoppable force. Now he wonders if the man ever sleeps.

But the world will not wait long for men like them.

“Tell me when you are ready to begin again.”

 

 

It is a horrible thing.

To see his Lord’s blood run…it is wrong. His instinct tells him it is against the very laws of nature. But if Kuro is brave, he must be as well.

The scent of the incense is incongruous with what they have done. No hint of blood is there, only the scent of flowers filling him with a strange nostalgia. Not for his own childhood, certainly, there were few flowers there. The glimpses of memories he catches are of his first days with the Divine Heir, when his protection seemed a much simpler task. But there are other images too, faces that resemble Kuro’s but are not, hands that could not be his.

And a thought placed in his mind: the Fountainhead Palace. _Meet me there._

He stays with Kuro as long as he possibly can. For the next time they meet—he can’t think about what might happen. But soon enough, they can delay no longer.

It is only when he turns away that he notices Genichiro, standing with Emma at the back of the room. He has been watching them the whole time. Suspicion prickles at the back of his neck, perhaps unfairly. He looks only contemplative, no trace of wrath in his eyes. Good.

Genichiro grabs his wrist as he is about to leave. He is doing that often lately.

He kneels at Sekiro’s feet, still holding his hand. “Give me one more chance, Sekiro. Let me convince you.” His voice is firm, but not harsh. There is more confidence to him now, less desperation.

Sekiro takes his hand in return, pulls him to his feet. “If I am to depart on such an important task, I will need a guard.” It will be better for him if he is not alone with his thoughts.

They walk for the better part of a day, down Ashina’s rocky paths and through her deep forests. As they clamber over roots and cliffs, Genichiro tells him of the land and its history—of the snake women descended from the same clan as Tomoe, of the apes who were said to have first taught humans to live in this land, of all the little villages so far from the seat of power. Isshin, he explains, visited them all when he was well. All of Ashina would come to know the man who had given them their independence by the sword. He’s more talkative than usual, perhaps intending to convince Sekiro of the worth of their country.

It sounds a bit like a child’s tale. But there is plenty of truth in it, he knows.

In the very depths of Ashina, he can feel how ancient the land is. It’s a fine place. But he belongs to no country.

It’s when they approach Mibu village that Genichiro gets around to what is truly on his mind. They’re picking their way through the river, avoiding the villagers at work. Genichiro catches a firefly in his hand, watches it crawl across his fingers. Then he stares dead ahead at Sekiro, his gaze unflinching.

“Tomoe and Takeru died trying to sever immortality.”

It’s not a surprise, exactly. The evidence is already there—the fact that they are dead at all despite the dragon’s heritage, the notes left behind, all the talk of beheading. Still, it’s different to hear it said outright. Sekiro steels his face. He cannot afford to seem weak, not about this.

“I see.” He looks at Genichiro’s hands, not his eyes. The bug flies away.

“Do you?” Genichiro’s voice is dark. “Does Kuro? Are you prepared to—” He bites off the end of his sentence, stomps through the water.

He is. He is prepared. Though he and Kuro have not spoken it outright, he understood what would be demanded of him. A horrible, unspeakable thing. Yet it would be crueler to force someone to live an immortal life they do not want. A curse.

“I must do what must be done.”

“What?”

“I overheard the Divine Heir say this. Now I see his meaning.” Of course. Of course his brave Lord would rather die. They are trading lives back and forth these days, all of them.

That does not mean he intends to allow it. “Do not mistake my resolve for lack of care. I hope still there may be another way.”

Genichiro looks away from him, into the dark swamps. “They hoped so too.”

Even for him, it’s difficult not to feel guilty. It must have taken courage for Genichiro to tell him this, his last chance at persuasion. “I will think on it. I can promise you that.” But it will not change his mind. They all have a duty.

A hush falls over them when they reach the cave. Even having been there before, its sudden and expansive beauty takes him off guard.

“A sweetly scented bridal offering.” Genichiro reads from the altar, his fingers trailing on the mossy stone. “Is this…?”

“Never imagined a shinobi like myself would be married.” It comes out more wistfully than he meant, but it’s hard not to imagine as they walk through the sacred space. The ceremonies once held here must have been breathtaking.

They both stand before the palanquin. It’s beautiful here, old and untouched and peaceful in a way the world above isn’t.

The moment his hand brushes the fabric, Genichiro speaks. “You’re really going. I haven’t persuaded you.”

“Genichiro.” Sekiro turns to face the other man, head tilted just slightly up. Right now, he does not regret anything that has brought him to this place—losing his arm, letting Genichiro live, even the death of his father. Though he goes into the unknown, he feels steady, as if lifted by some ancient presence. It’s not the same grim certainty he felt before, not the deep knowledge that failure was not an option. More a confidence, an acceptance of whatever the future may hold.

“Kuro and I won’t leave you alone.” He means it, truly, and he doesn’t just mean today. “I will return soon.”

And there’s something in the air, some feeling in this place that moves him to lift his hand to the other man’s cheek. Genichiro is completely still, eyes wide and barely breathing. Neither of them move, not wanting to shatter the fragile peace.

Today he may leave the world of mortals entirely, and though he knows he will return he does not know when. Or what he will return to. He remembers what Isshin said about hesitation.

 _This is probably not what he meant_ , he thinks, and kisses Genichiro.

He has little to compare it to. There are no flames, or flowers, or anything that poets like to say. Genichiro is frozen against him, like a frightened animal about to bolt, and for a moment he fears he has miscalculated. But then Genichiro presses back against him, warm and alive, his mouth slightly open. He is not experienced in this, but it feels right.

Neither of them pushes any further than that. It is not soft—they are not men given to gentleness—but it is patient. A confirmation of meaning, a promise for the future.

When they break apart, Sekiro feels oddly sated. Kissing Genichiro, he decides, is like the comfort of rice. Simple, satisfying, sweet.

“Have a safe journey home.” He says, before either of them have the chance to second guess what they’ve done, and retreats into the tent.

With a slight smile on his face, he waits for his fate to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: though we don't know what happened to Tomoe and Takeru, I don't think Genichiro would know either. It doesn't seem like she told him what they were up to. But their graves are there, so he's telling the truth as he knows it. At least until we get a DLC...
> 
> Next time: While Sekiro confronts the Divine Dragon, Genichiro confronts his friends and family.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sekiro confronts the Divine Dragon. Genichiro confronts the mess he's made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. where to start. first of all, i'm sorry to go so long without posting! i had a lot of this chapter roughly written but every time i went to edit it, i just kind of hated how it sounded...i'm not used to writing things this long and i burnt out a little. but coming back to it after a break, it worked WAY better. i'd rather give you guys something high quality than something rushed! this came out super long so hopefully that makes up for it.
> 
> there will be one more chapter, maybe a short epilogue too. i can't promise it will come in a timely manner, but i can promise i won't leave it unfinished.
> 
> as always i am so thankful to everyone who has shared this fic, talked about it with me, given me ideas, and just enjoyed it! it means a lot. thank you for your patience.
> 
> edit: ALSO!! twitter user seramaie drew some AMAZING art inspired by this fic! check it out here! https://twitter.com/seramaie/status/1132367755305541632

Genichiro Ashina climbs home through the night. Alone.

These are the stones and roots, the worn paths of his homeland. The severe and lonely beauty means more to him than he can say. This is what he fights to protect. Yet it gives him no comfort now. He had ultimately failed in his duty yet again. And then the shinobi had…

He brings his fingers to his lip. It almost feels as if he imagined the whole thing.

By the time he makes it back to the castle, it’s the middle of the night. The guards look surprised to see him—understandable, if he looks as much of a mess as he feels. But they let him pass and soon he’s stumbling exhausted finally back to his own room.

Candles are already lit within as he approaches. His hand goes to his sword, ready to intercept the intruder.

But it’s only Emma, pouring tea. The sight fills him with more dread than an enemy would have.

“Genichiro.” She smiles sweetly, a signal that tells him he will not be getting away easily. “We should talk.”

“There is nothing to speak about. I have pressing business to attend to.”

“Trying to avoid me, still?” The lilt of her voice brings him back to when they were teenagers, trying to provoke each other.

“I have not been _avoiding_ you. The shinobi kidnapped me—”

She shrugs. “He had my permission. It was for your own good.”

Genichiro glares at her. “Thank you, most gracious physician. What ever would I do without your help.”

Emma’s brow twitches, the only sign of displeasure on her implacable face. Shaking her head, she finally hands him the cup she’s just poured. “It’s good to see that you are still yourself. I had feared the worst.” Genichiro is pleased to find that it’s actual tea, not sake.

They drink in a tense, though never hostile silence. He is reminded of all the times Emma was angry with him in their youth, her hard stare and set jaw as she decided what to say. There is simply too much between them to discuss.

Finally she sighs, places her cup down. “Did you…go to see the shinobi off?” The words are hesitant, chosen carefully.

“The shinobi…” _Kissed me. Kissed me?_ “Has departed for the divine realm.”

Her eyes sharpen. Unfortunate, that Emma likely knows him better than anyone else. “What do you think of him?” He will have to answer this diplomatically.

“He is…more agreeable than I thought.” Genichiro drinks his tea in one mouthful and hopes his face betrays nothing.

Emma pours him another cup. “He’s not unlike us. You might learn something from him, stubborn as you both are.”

“What, should I learn to eat rice uncooked? It’s me who has been teaching him.”

She laughs a little at that, gentle. “I thought he looked a mess at first. But he was our only hope.”

The reminder of their meeting stings, drags him back to reality from the strange place he’s been. Even if he and the shinobi have grown close, it changes nothing. His impossible goal remains the same.

“I’m tired, Emma.” Is all he can say. He feels it too, the ache of walking suddenly making itself known in his limbs.

For a moment, Emma looks prepared to argue. But then she stands “Of course. But Genichiro,” She looks into his eyes, fixing him with her stare. “Give me your word that you will share your burdens with me, and not lock yourself away here to brood.”

She won’t understand. She has a weight on her, but it’s not the same one he carries. Still, a part of him, the part that has been growing louder these past few days, is shamed at his behavior. He has friends to counsel him. He should not throw that away so easily.

“I promise.” He wants very badly to mean it.

Between his room and the hall, she looks over her shoulder one more time.

“I am glad you have come home, Genichiro. In more ways than one.”

Emma shuts the screen behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

 

The first thing the next morning, he climbs the watchtower. It’s cold, and the snow gets in his face, but Genichiro is steadfast, watching the horizon for any sign of the shinobi. All he manages to see is a plume of smoke to the south, where the ministry forces are camped. Bastards.

It’s strange to suddenly be in command again. Though there are questions, his men are pleased to have their general back.

Walking through his home feels disorienting. He’s been gone hardly more than a week, but so much has changed in that time. He’s somewhat mortified to find Kuro occupying the central tower now. Proximity stops him from avoiding the Lord he kidnapped.

Now they regard each other with uncertainty. Kuro reads while he paces between the windows, staring out at each one in turn.

It must be distracting the boy. He lifts his head from the book and speaks gently. “I worry about him too, Lord Genichiro.”

“…I am not worried. Your shinobi is more than capable.” _I’m worried about what will become of us in his stead._

Kuro gives him a strange look, smiling at him more genuinely than he’s ever seen. “Is that so?”

“Your oath will keep him safe.” He deflects the probing question and keeps watching the sky. Whatever feelings he may have are not the Heir’s business.

“There are worse things that can happen to a man than death.” The sound of his book closing grabs Genichiro’s attention. The boy is looking down at his hands, his voice grown quiet. “Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t…”

Genichiro cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Do not dishonor him by wishing his work undone. He does not defend you out of some oath, but because he wishes to.” Because as rough as the man might look, he cares more fervently than any Genichiro has ever known. “If I had understood that sooner…”

The Divine Heir stands from his perch and comes to join him at the window. “When I was younger, he used to come out beyond the estate walls with me, and help me catch insects. Is it wrong of me to miss those times?”

He can imagine it, the shinobi with his face dour and serious, crouched in the grass. Something turns in his chest.

“It is not wrong to wish for peace, Lord Kuro.” He says, his voice measured. “I realize my manner has been wrathful. But all of it was for the peace and safety of this country. And the people in it.”

“There can be no peace when immortality exists. Men will always covet it…or fear it. And it will always bring stagnation. Burn today or rot tomorrow.” He looks out the window at the smoke already rising in the distance. “I do not envy you the choice.”

“Nor I yours.” It’s the only acknowledgement they’ve made of what he knows the Heir plans to do. He’s seen it once before, after all. A horrible task, but he understands. It’s no less than he would do for Ashina.

“I am not afraid.” He says. “I know he will make it quick. But—”

For once, Kuro falters. His little hands tremble.

“Promise me, Lord Genichiro. That if you yet live when this is done, you will take care of him.”

Perhaps he should argue. Tell him again that this choice is wrong, that this is not what the shinobi would want. That they will find another way. But he recalls the boy’s face as he cut himself with the Mortal Blade. The calm and steady determination. It must have hurt terribly for one who had never been injured before. Yet he had not flinched.

The answer comes before Genichiro can even think about it. “Of course. I swear I will.” That is, if there’s anything he can do at all. Knowing the shinobi, there might be nothing left to take care of.

“Thank you.” Kuro smiles up at him. It makes him feel suddenly, horribly sad. “It’s funny. Now we have made an oath of our own after all.”

 

 

Black smoke is building on the horizon, thicker every day. It stirs his blood to fight. Ashina cries out in pain, and he will not let her burn.

But it would be foolish and pointless to strike first. The Ministry has superior numbers and certainly horrible weaponry. All they have is their position. Genichiro intends to use it to the fullest.

Today he rides through the outskirts, watching his men prepare. A general should be with his people, Grandfather always said, and he has always upheld it. Most of them are cheered at the sight of him. It brings him no comfort. Many of them, he knows, will die in his name. On his orders.

“My lord.” A lesser field general rides up alongside him, one of the remaining Spears of Ashina. “I’ve spread your orders. The last of the bridges are down.”

“Good.” The ministry will find an approach, to be sure, but it will be easier to fight them off from one point.

The general stays by his side as he makes his way through the camps. They pass two riflemen leading one of the brutes with red eyes. The sight would have stirred fire in him a month ago, but now it makes him shiver. This is the cost of the rejuvenating water. His choice has damned these men. Will he be led around like a beast one day?

Yet still, some part of him thinks— _if I had a whole army of them, then surely_ …

“At least with all our losses there’s plenty of food to go around.” The commander says as they pass a group of soldiers with their portions of meat. “Smart of you to order us well fed. But, my lord,” He lowers his voice so the soldiers may not hear. “If I may be so bold.”

“You may.”

“Our ranks are thin. That shinobi alone killed a hundred men, not to mention Gyoubu and the bull. Those who remain may not be enough.”

 _He is worth a hundred men. A thousand._ Genichiro tamps down the thought. There’s no telling whether the shinobi will even fight for him. And more than that: the men he killed were human beings. They had families. They died for what? Because the shinobi code demanded revenge. No, worse. Because Genichiro bade them to. Gyoubu used to drink tea with him and laugh too loud.

Rage flares in him, but it burns out fast, and guilt is gnawing behind. “We will speak later,” he snaps out, the last his voice will give him before it cracks.

He kicks his horse into speed, head tucked down. He cannot let his soldiers see him falter.

 

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he needs to move, needs to be anywhere else away from the smoke and fire. A cool and peaceful place, dark and filled with quiet fragrant water—

He ends up at the little shrine instead. It looks much the same as when he left it. The snow underfoot is untrampled, though he sees a few footprints in the dirt that might have come from the shinobi, days ago. Light filters in through the bamboo. He can hear the scraping sounds of the sculptor still carving.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here again. Not after the way you two left.”

Genichiro removes his weapons, sets them at the shrine entrance. It feels wrong to bring them in. “I needed a place to think.”

The old man nods, still carving. “Good place for that.” The little shrine is still and quiet, save for the scraping sounds of chisel on wood. Still, he can see smoke rising in the distance.

Yet another refuge that will be destroyed in the coming battle, no matter how hard he tries. “You should leave this country while you can. War will be here soon.”

“War is already here.” The sculptor scoffs at him. “No matter what we do.”

He has no reply for that. There is no denying the truth.

Genichiro sits in place, legs folded, listening to the steady scrape of wood. It’s cold in here, but the chill is bracing, clearing his mind.

“You fought with my grandfather, didn’t you? In the rebellion.” He speaks into the empty room. The sculptor does not falter. “What would he do? How did he _win?_ ”

“You really want to know?”

The sculptor sets his tools down and heaves a sigh, his head tilted up to the ceiling. The buddhas surround him, all of them wrathful.

“There was no trick. He fought like hell and everyone fought with him. Lots of people died, or worse. Our country burned.” His hoarse voice is almost flat as he speaks slowly, like reciting a prayer. “Him killing General Tamura helped. Brought them to negotiations, at least. But it was not an easy war. No such thing. No glory in that, no joy in battle. Only bodies trying to survive.”

He breathes and pauses, as if he had planned to say more. Genichiro is waiting for something about _Shura_ again, some explanation of why grandfather had to take this man’s arm. But it never comes. He only stares down into the face of his carving, seeing something in its twisted eyes.

Finally, he turns to Genichiro, raises one gnarled finger in warning. “If you’re going to ask me what you should do—”

“I wasn’t. I’m not.” He expected nothing more. Though part of him still wants a magic trick to solve this, he was not so deluded as to think he would find it here.

“Good.” The sculptor huffs, sounding really very much like an old monkey. He moves to sit in the doorway beside Genichiro, both of them watching the smoke on the horizon. “When your grandfather was younger…” He begins, but cuts himself off. A melancholy look deepens the wrinkles on his face. “People remember him as a hero. But he had his flaws.”

Genichiro waits as he stares off into the distance, as if he’s trying to read some signals in the smoke. Then he shakes his head and crosses his arms, whatever memory he was holding vanished. “I think what we went through changed him. He grew up nicely. Just like you.”

Genichiro laughs, surprising even himself. “Is that a compliment, old man?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, brat.” The sculptor stands again, turns his back and returns to his place. The sounds of scraping wood resume. He can’t quite figure out when they became so comforting.

“Stay as long as you like.” He calls over his shoulder. “Try your hand at carving buddha while you’re at it. The flames are quieter here.”

 

 

Every morning he wakes early, just as the sun is rising, and goes to the watchtower. He scans the rooftops first, then the castle, then the surrounding land, farther and farther away until he wishes he could cast his gaze over the mountains. Searching for what sign, he’s not sure. He knows from experience that when the shinobi returns, it will be silent and sudden.

Every day the Divine Heir assures him that his shinobi will return. Every day he patrols the castle grounds like a dog. Every day he visits the sculptor, sits in silence for long enough to gather himself again. Every day the ministry forces get closer.

He and Emma drink tea by the reservoir. The falling snow is mixed with ash now, the sky darker and darker by the day. It’s been several days now. He dares not speak of it, but he does not know how much longer he can wait.

Today he’s in the library with the Divine Heir, pouring over the old books in search of something, anything that might help him. He reads and rereads the old Ashina texts, the tales of his grandfather’s battles. Kuro has chosen a more sobering book, the preserved journals of a scholar on his deathbed, ruminations on gods and reincarnations.

He’s starting to get drowsy when he hits the end of the text he’s on, elaborating on Isshin’s fight with General Tamura. He’s missing the scroll that tells the end.

The piles of scrolls give way under his rummaging, kicking up dust. But it’s nowhere here, which means…

It has to be in Isshin’s room.

“I’m going to my grandfather’s tower.” He announces his exit to Kuro, who barely looks up long enough to wave him goodbye.

Genichiro’s stomach feels suddenly unsettled as he descends through the castle. He has not spoken to his grandfather since…well, not more than a few words in the past month. And everyone has been telling him how Isshin would cut down a demon. He is uncertain how this will go.

But as he approaches along the balcony, something catches his eye. A flash of purple. If he had not seen it before he might think it a trick of the eye, or even the banner of the Ashina crest. But fresh from the fight, he knows. It’s one of the ministry’s shadows.

Genichiro shouts, wordless, and launches himself at the figure. It darts into Isshin’s room and he chases, his sword drawn and moving before he even enters, before he even sees.

He nearly impales himself on his grandfather’s sword, already slid through the intruder’s body like silk.

“Come to kill me too, have you!” He barks and flicks the body off, sends it slumping to a wet heap on the ground.

“I was trying to help!” Genichiro snaps back, then stops himself. It’s Isshin, after all. He likes to get a rise out of people.

His grandfather snorts dismissively and reclines again, starts cleaning the blood off his blade. The old thing is as sharp as his eye, and certainly looks like it’s still getting use. He should mention that to Emma.

Though he was not invited, he sits across from Isshin, mirroring his posture. They glare at each other, Isshin’s eye cool and appraising. Genichiro knows his own must be burning. He can’t eve tell what he’s so mad at—his grandfather, himself, the very world for being cruel enough to take his last living family by illness, of all things.

He tries to calm himself. He imagines a quiet place, away from smoke and fire. “I met an old friend of yours out in the woods. An orangutan.” His voice comes out steady, as he hoped.

Isshin raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“He told me you took his arm.”

“Perhaps I did.” Isshin stops polishing the blade. His posture is tense, like he’s waiting to react without hesitation.

Genichiro thinks of a cold, dark, and gentle place. A shrine in the snow. An underground spring. He holds on to the image, leaving no room for the storm of emotions that threatens to sweep him away. “He told me…you would have taken more than that from me.”

Even in his old age, the cold fury of Isshin Ashina is a powerful thing. His open eye pierces Genichiro like a lit arrow, burning through him. “I would have taken your head, foolish grandchild of mine.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Isshin doesn’t answer. He examines the blade of his sword, his reflection in the metal.

It’s too much. The thin thread of his patience frays and snaps. “Coward.”

“What answer will please you, Genichiro? That I am old and sick and feared for my health? That I did not wish to kill the boy I raised?” He tosses his head, as if the idea that Genichiro might want to know is ridiculous. “I brought in the shinobi. That was that.”

“Did you think he would kill me?” _Are you disappointed that he didn’t?_

“I thought he would stop you.”

“Stop me? From what?” He can only laugh bitterly at the irony. “The Ashina way is victory by any means, is it not? Isn’t that what you taught me?”

“You would have destroyed yourself. And I would expect no less from my own blood.”

“Then why—”

“I am not infallible, Genichiro.” Isshin has raised his voice now in earnest. Not the jovial wrath he takes with his enemies but a tone Genichiro always dreaded hearing in childhood. “Perhaps what I taught you was wrong.”

He’s too stunned to respond. Some part of him has wanted to hear this, has been waiting for it, at war with the part that wants his grandfather to be proud of him.

Worse is the understanding that fills him now, irrevocably. Isshin Ashina has never admitted he was wrong, not in Genichiro’s memory. The beloved, immortal grandfather of his thoughts, a man with no faults, a man who could never be defeated—that man does not exist. And possibly never did. Isshin Ashina is not going to save them. His grandfather, his only family, is mortal and is going to die. Like his parents did, like Tomoe did. Leaving Genichiro utterly alone.

Isshin, ever perceptive, seems to sense the change. His face softens as he stands. Genichiro, still silent, watches him take up his cloak and mask. Though he moves to leave the tower, he stops and lays a firm and steady hand on Genichiro’s shoulder. He feels fifteen years old again.

“Will you hunt rats with me, grandson?”

A few months ago he would have jumped at the invitation. But he’s not a child now. He thinks of Emma. Thinks of a shrine in the snow. Of the shinobi’s promise to him.

More killing is not what he needs. “Hunt alone, grandfather. And don’t let Emma catch you.”

The tengu mask can’t muffle Isshin’s _hah!_ of a laugh. He ruffles Genichiro’s hair, once more like he used to, then he’s gone. More silent than the wind.

Genichiro inhales. Holds it. Exhales. He should talk to Emma about this. But he might as well get what he came here for in the first place.

With the room now quiet, Genichiro begins rifling through his grandfather’s things, looking for the text he missed. But before he can find it, a different scroll catches his eye. Illuminated in swirls of black ink, it lays unfurled on the ground. Isshin must have been reading it. It’s not that he intends to be nosy, but the words jump out at him.

_I beseech you, make offerings for the Dragon’s Blood…_

 

 

A warm front blows in that night, and with it a storm. _Inauspicious_ , he hears people murmur, _for the coming battle_. But to Genichiro it seems an omen intended for him, giving him strength in what he is planning to do.

His body is stronger since he drank the Sediment. His arms do not tire as he scrapes through the dirt by the old graves, bare-handed.

Lightning flashes in the distance and for a moment he thinks he sees her there, leaning against the old tree. Wearing her dragon mask, the one she danced in. But there’s nothing there but shadows.

 _I’m sorry._ He thinks anyway, just in case some part of her might be listening.

He can’t imagine they put much stock in graves, there at the palace. To hear Tomoe describe it, the bodies not eaten were given to the sea and sky. Her stories had scared him when he was younger, not that he would have let it show. Now he thinks of the shinobi there, and wonders. Dirt stains his nails black.

He’s so lost in thought, so far out of his body he almost cuts himself on it. Concealed beneath stone and dirt, yet there’s not a mark on it. The black mortal blade.

Despite how dark the night is, the double edge blade glimmers almost white. He traces the immaculately carved lotus of the guard. As he grips the hilt, it almost seems to open up before him. _Tomoe, what did you do with this?_

Drawing it feels worse than being struck by lightning. His life is at war, pulled between the blade—no, the _gate_ —and the waters coursing through his veins. Only this can end the life of an immortal. His body wants to get away from it, instinctively, a harsh animal fear prickling at the base of his spine.

So overwhelmed he is, he almost misses the soft sound of crunching snow underfoot. His head snaps up, the sword seems to pulse in his hand. He’s not imagining it. There is someone by the tree, standing in the shadows—

“Do not do this, Genichiro.”

It’s Emma, one hand on the hilt of her blade. The sight makes his blood burn. How dare she?

“Let it go.” She demands, stepping forward. Her voice is strained just slightly, as if she’s been crying. “What do you think this will help? Why do you need this?”

_Because otherwise it is only me, and the failure is only mine. If I fail today, I can say it was because I did not have the Dragon’s Heritage. If I try as only myself, and fail, then…_

“Do you really want this?” Her feet shift into a familiar stance. She is trained, after all, to kill a demon.

He could take her, maybe. But the cost of that might truly break him. “Emma. You are my friend.” He drops the blade at his feet and opens his hands to her. Even beneath the burns, they are covered and stained with dirt.

“We may need this in the coming battle. Let it be a last resort. Please.” He prays that she does not know the true name of the blade, that she will not see what his last resort really is.

“Why must this be your solution?” Her voice is lower this time, angry. Her perfect composure broken.

“You know what the ministry will do, Emma. You know war. You remember.” Genichiro steps closer, his hands extended like a beggar. She does not retreat, does not even flinch. “Even now, you have seen the bodies. The families, like ours, burnt alive in their homes. They will not think of the innocents! The whole country will burn and bleed.” He gestures to his own body, his own skin cracked and covered with scars. Distantly, he’s away his voice has risen to a snarl, his eye sting with tears he will not allow himself. “Are you not a physician? How, then, will we treat this wound?”

“Enough, Genichiro!” She draws. He fights back his instinct to do the same. This may be his only chance to convince her. Emma advances on him, her blade held out right. Neither of them breathes as she moves to hold it at his neck. And then they are both still, as the storm howls around him. In the lightning flashes, he can see the pain writ across her face. “What you say is true. And that is why I will not lose you as well!” She does not lower the sword.

Of course. However this turns out, neither of them will bear it. He remembers being a child alongside her, sitting up in his rooms late at night. By the candlelight they had described to each other their last memories of the battlefield, their worst fears for the future.

“Let it be a last resort.” He repeats. He turns away from the blade, hangs his head low in conciliation. “I’ll talk to the shinobi about it. When he returns.” In this, at least, he is being honest. He simply doesn’t believe the shinobi will return in time.

She glares, sheathes her sword with a hiss. “No, you’ll talk to all of us about it. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Kuro will caution him, surely. Emma has already made her feelings known. Isshin… might actually understand.

Thunder snarls overhead again. Cold and piercing, rain begins to pour. From here they can both see the fires, growing ever nearer.

Emma shudders in the rain. “Let’s go back, please.” Her hand is still on the sword at her hip, but she turns away from him. “I don’t need another patient.”

Genichiro looks at the grave, at the dirt thrown around. If his mentor had left behind a body, it was not here. “Alright.” Genichiro sheathes the blade. He can sense it pulling him, even at his side. It feels like he’s falling apart at the seams.

 

 

The sky stretches on infinitely, above and below him. Or perhaps it’s not sky but impenetrable sea, reflecting back on itself. The only thing that distinguishes the landscape is the great tree before him. Gnarled and ashen, it dominates the expanse. But despite its withered state, its petals bloom.

Lightning strikes the tree, blinding him. The sound of it rings through his head.

_Ashina’s blood walks by your right side. My own heir by your left. Yet you are mortal. Nothing._

Sekiro has never put much stock in gods. He knows about divine beings, certainly, and the spirits that inhabit this country. He regards them with a healthy amount of apprehension and respect.  But at night, before he sleeps, he prays to no one.

The being before him is different. Walking beneath its gaze, he feels almost unworthy. There can be no doubt. This is the source of immortality. In all its horrible grace.

_Who are you, starving wolf? Who would cut me and pull me up by my roots? Who would sever immortality?_

“Let Ashina go. We would return you to your home.”

The dragon undulates above him, twisting to and fro. It is like nothing he has ever seen before and nothing he will see again.

_Mortal wolf. How can I trust you with such a task? You creatures could not even preserve my tree._

“That was my father’s doing. Allow me to atone for it.”

_Fascinating._

It extends itself tall into the endless sky, then drops its head like a falling comet. It moves to meet him, to look him in the eye. Sekiro keeps his head bowed, but he can see its face now, both animal and alien. The scales like feathers, the twisted roots in the appearance of horns. The difference between a dragon and a worm is largely one of perception. He thinks of the blades in his possession, ready to move if needed.

 _It is true, hunting wolf. The land rejects me._ The Divine Dragon withdraws again, wraps its body around the tree. _I must know you are fit for this gift. Show me who you are._

The sword it draws has seven branches. Lightning begins to fall around them, great pillars of it. He raises Kusabimaru to the air.

 

 

When it is done, the dragon bares its great head. His hand falters as he trades Kusabimaru for the mortal blade. It seems wrong, to cut such a divine creature with such a horrible thing. The dragon merely waits, tilting its eye towards him serenely. He remembers the name of the blade. A gracious gift of tears. With that name in mind, he cuts in.

The dragon does not flinch. Its scales ripple in the faint breeze. The mortal blade slides in easily under its eye, and it should be blood welling up from the cut but it’s not. He lets the tears fall into his hand, glittering, the color of fading blossoms. The tears become solid, like crystal in his hands.

And then all of it—the dragon, the tree, the surface of the clouds—begins to unravel in his mind, all fading into white.

 

 

In his dream they embrace like lovers.  Sekiro feels the urge of wanting, sure enough, but their motions are slow, gentle. He opens his eyes, wanting to see Genichiro’s body.

It is not a sight unknown to him. But something has changed—where burns once marred his arms and torso, spurs of bone now protrude, black and smoldering. His eyes, half lidded, are red.

Genichiro leans up to kiss him again. It’s slow and surprisingly soft. He had always thought—when he dared to think of it—that Genichiro would kiss as if it were a fight. Now he presses his lips gently to Sekiro’s jaw, again and again, up to his neck.

“If I could go back,” he says, confessional, his breath hot against Sekiro’s ear, “I would change nothing. I would do it all again. And I will.”

“I know.” Sekiro feels his mouth move, hears the words come out, but he does not speak by his own will. Cold panic creeps up his spine. “And I will always stop you.”

He blinks, and his sword is through Genichiro’s body. No, not his sword, the other one, the red and black blade cutting a bloody swath through the other man. It moves like ink covering a page, blotting out his vision, until there’s nothing but black.

 


End file.
